


Cold As You

by DCW



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Unresolved Feelings, bring a tissue, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13106346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCW/pseuds/DCW
Summary: Molly felt sick — absolutely and horrendously sick to her stomach. She gripped the pipette and stared into the petri dish, willing herself not to cry. She couldn't do that, not while they were here.





	1. Molly POV

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from years ago, went over it a little bit but nothing has really changed.  
> Comments/Criticism is super appreciated. 
> 
> Inspired by the song "Cold as you" by Taylor Swift.  
> Reading both chapters give more insight into the story and explains a lot of things (that may seem mean) from the first chapter. This was written before the most recent seasons came out.

Molly felt sick — absolutely and horrendously sick to her stomach.

She gripped the pipette and stared into the petri dish, willing herself not to cry. She couldn't do that, not while they were here.

She wouldn't give Sherlock another reason to think she was boring and weak.

Why had she let herself hope that this, whatever this was, with Sherlock would progress into anything deeper?

He trusted her and came to her when she was needed — that was is.

She shouldn't have dreamt of more, shouldn't have assumed.

For three years she'd kept his secret, even as John, Lestrade, and everyone who'd known him had crumbled — she'd stayed quiet.

Because she'd made a promise, she knew how important it was to him that it be kept.

She should have known. She was normal, boring, just a pawn in the game.

Sherlock wasn't normal, he never was and was never going to be, so why should he think of her as anything else?

Her chest tightened, and through her bitterness she chanced a look up from her work at him.

He stood tall and handsome, like always, across from her; his black coat and hair illuminated by the fluorescent lab lights. Molly was momentarily mesmerized by his perfectly bowed lips moving as he mumbled out deductions over a bloodied, half-corpse — fresh from this morning — on the table.

He'd come in, demanding to see the body, and now she doubted that he even remembered that she was in the room.

"You've always counted, and I've always trusted you."

"What do you need?"

"You."

The memory of three years ago flashed through her mind — 'No.' She thought 'No, I'm not the one you need.'

There was only one thing Sherlock's world that mattered as much as the work, just one other thing that Sherlock needed to balance himself out... John Watson.

The man, who after only a day of knowing him, had wormed himself into a place in Sherlock's mind that Molly had been trying to even glimpse for years.

Perhaps they thought that she didn't notice the way their hands lingered against each one another's, or how they would spend a few extra moments than necessary smiling, looking into each other's eyes when Sherlock did something especially brilliant or the subtle was they would brush and lean against each other — but she did. It was painfully, painfully, obvious to her.

Love. Sherlock Holmes had found someone he loved, and it wasn't her.

Why not? Why couldn't it have been?

She was the one who'd stuck by him all these years, even being rejected and put down by him time and time again.

But now, perhaps, it didn't even matter. All those things she'd done for him, they'd probably been just a means to get the work done, or to protect John.

What was it that John had that she didn't? Was it because he was a man? What it because he had been in the military? Was was she annoying and he wasn't?

She caught Sherlock staring at her from the corner of his eye — She let out a small gasp, startled, and looked down to brush the tears away. She heard the movement of his coat as he turned back towards the body, and the rustling of paper.

"John.." She heard him say, "Here, go to this address. I need you to talk to the landlady..."

The rest of the sentence was lost to her as she concentrated on holding back her tears. No, he wasn't doing this. He wasn't going to call her out, call her irrational for feeling like this, was he?

A moment later, after the soft click of the door had echoed through the quiet lab, he was in front of her; She couldn't hold the tears back then, so she let them drip down her cheeks.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the lab was the strangled noise of her small, quivering sobs — she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, scoffing at the black smudge of mascara — God, she probably looked awful.

Slowly she raised her head, looking up until she was starting him in the eye.

She knew he'd already deduced her feelings, she knew that he knew exactly why she was crying and that he was the reason for it. And still, still, he sat there and stared at her with those icy eyes like he was expecting her to speak, to scream, or to throw the table over and storm out.

But she wouldn't scream, she wouldn't speak; She couldn't.

He broke contact first, looking down and reaching into his pocket to pull out a set of keys; He set them on the counter. "The keys to the filing cabinet in your office. I took them last week, when I needed to look at those files for the case with the seven fingered hand..." His voice was as calm as it always was, flat and deep the sound rumbled throughout the room and only forced another — harsher —sob to rip out from her chest.

Clearing his throat he took a step back from the table, Molly search and tried to catch his eye but he was insistently darting his eyes back and forth throughout the room — avoiding her.

How could he be so cold?

"I've injected the body with the serum I mentioned before, text me if you notice any red appearing on his arms or shoulders within the next half an hour."

For a moment his eyes darted up to meet hers before — with a dramatic sweep of his jacket — he turned and sauntered out of the room.

The moment the door clicked shut her knees buckled and she knelt on the floor, sobbing harder than before.

Damn it. Damn him. Damn it all.


	2. Sherlock POV

Sherlock's heart felt full, it was a feeling so foreign to him, as he looked at John across the cadaver between them.

Though their affections were a thing that had been growing since the day they had met, their awareness of it was a recent thing.

Even after almost a moth, he still wasn't prepared for the long , warm, looks John sent his way, or the way John would crowd him against a wall suddenly and press soft kisses to his lips and throat.

He was a mystery and a game he'd never played before, one he was sure he would never get bored of.

The doctor sighed, standing up straight and putting down the autopsy report.

John opened his mouth to say something, before frowning and looking over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock caught his eye, and raised an eyebrow, eyes questioning.

John's frown only deepened, and he nodded quickly at the corner of the room.

Sherlock turned, and realized that he'd completely forgotten that Molly was still in the room.

Not only that, but her eyes were red and her hands were shaking with the pipette.

His first thought was that of distaste, that if any of her tears fell into the evidence that it would be ruined – but then he turned back and caught John's eye and he knew that the doctor had guessed what he'd been thinking; and disapproved.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow again, it wasn't his fault that she was crying; Female emotion, such a fickle, complicated, unnecessary thing.

John sighed, and pulled a pen from his pocked and scribbled something on the back of the report.

'She's smarter than you give her credit for, you know.'

It was Sherlock's turn to be confused.

'She is less of an idiot than most people, but what has that got to do with anything?'

'She really likes you, you know. Like, really likes.'

'I still don't understand.'

'She's had a crush on you ever since you met, Sherlock. You always said that you were married to you work, and not interested in any relationships. Think about what's changed.'

Oh.

OH.

He looked out of the corner of his eyes, almost jumping out of his skin as their eyes made contact. It was broken quickly though, as Molly gasped and turned away.

He looked back to John, who gave him a sympathetic look.

Wonderful. He was going to have to do this on his own.

He sighed, taking the pen back from John and scribbling down an address.

"John, here, go to this address. I need you to talk to the landlady, and ask her if she has ever owned a tabby cat named Timothy."

John smiled softly at his made-up story, and reached across the table to caress his hand gently – before turning and leaving the room.

He took a deep breath before turning around the face her, she was visibly quivering now.

They just stood there for a moment, he was so unsure of what to say.

There had only been a few instances in his life that he could remember, that he didn't understand.

This was most definitely one of them, though he would never admit it – not even to John.

She lifted an arm, and wiped her tears away with the back of her arm, smearing some of her makeup on her sleeve.

She scoffed, and then looked up to hold his gaze.

He felt his stomach twisting uncomfortably, what was he supposed to do? Comfort her? Tell her he was sorry that she was unable to control her feelings for him?

He kept his face carefully blank as thoughts and frustrations whizzed their way through his mind.

He was no good with relationships, no good with feelings. There was a reason he only had one friend.

His foot twitched, and unable to take the pressure of their connected gazes anymore, looked down at the table.

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the set of keys he'd borrowed the week before.

"The keys to the filing cabinet in your office. I took them last week, when I needed to look at those files for the case with the seven fingered hand..."

His face tenses, and he doesn't dare look up, when he hears a wrenched sounding sob escape her.

Was this how normal people reacted? Was this how John cried when he believed Sherlock had left him?

He still couldn't look up, couldn't bare to stare in the face something he didn't – couldn't – understand.

He cleared his throat, and took a step away from the table. He made sure his eyes were anywhere but near her.

"I've injected the body with the serum I mentioned before, text me if you notice any red appearing on his arm or shoulders within the next half an hour."

Before he turned to exit, he chanced a small glance up at her – and immediately regretted it. Her eyes and cheeks were wet and black from tears and running mascara. Her face contorted in such a manner than one could be led to believe that she was under the most terrible form of torture known to man.

He walked as fast as he could, down, out, away – far away from her and feelings and complications.

Maybe, just maybe he could learn to understand. Maybe, if he spent enough time with John the doctor would teach him how to understand, how to feel again.

But now he had more important things to do – there was a case to be solved, and a new relationship to discover.

\---

John was waiting for him outside.

"So, did you talk to her about it?"

He shouldn't lie- he should tell the truth- he should-

"Absolutely. Everything is cleared up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to keep the character as in-character as I could.  
> Hope you enjoyed! Please leave me a comment, they give me life.


End file.
